


Curiosity

by waldorph



Category: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: Dubious Consent, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e04 Allison from Palmdale, F/M, Metal Sex, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-28
Updated: 2008-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 23:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what happened to Derek when he was taken to the basement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curiosity

**1.**  
First time Derek met her, she was chained to the floor. The 888s threw him in beside her, moved him like he was made of rubber- the shredded bits from exploded tires.

Hell, way his head feels. Might be.

She's tiny. Got a strange delicacy about her face; something he's not used to. Most of the women, they've got- well. The mothers, they've got softer faces; worn. Hard in different ways. Soldiers have faces hard as the men.

Same dead eyes.

But this one. She's got smudges all over her face, and her dark hair is all mussed all over her face, eyes big, but totally alive. She twists her wrists in the cuffs, shivers, curled up in herself. Graceful rotation of her hands on the wrists, chains clinking with every flex. It's strangely beautiful.

No idea how old she is- maybe 20? Maybe 16. Somewhere in there. Old enough to fight, but then, Derek's been fighting since he grabbed a gun and shot the guy who thought he'd find a nice fuckhole in 5 year old Kyle. Derek'd given him a hole. Given him a whole round full of them. Wasn't much left of the guy after, and a passing patrol had picked him up, moved them to central camp. Hasn't been a day he's been without a gun since.

"Hey," he says around the dry throat. "Hey, it's gonna be okay."

"Nobody gets out of here," she replied, making a face at him. Her tiny nose wrinkles.

"My brother did, once. You hear music?"

"Kyle Reese."

"Huh?"

"Kyle Reese. He got out of here," she clarifes, hands still twisting. "He got John Connor out of here."

"Yeah," Derek agrees. She's a little…off. Must be the drugs. Fucking metal's already testing new drugs. Always testing. They're like lab rats.

She shivers. "I'm Cameron." The chains clink, and she smiles uncomfortably. "I'd shake, but I can't reach your hand."

He grins. He kind of likes her. "Derek."

A 888, pure metal, comes in. Looks between them. "You will breed," it says. It has this cultured voice. Anthony Hopkins from Silence of the Lambs. Its head rotates on its supporting braces, a smooth slide of metal and gears. "But not yet. You will come with us."

She curls in on herself. Derek watches, fascinated. It's a completely smooth motion, knees drawn up to her chin, large eyes peeking out over her fists. She looks even smaller.

They grab him.

Music plays.

**2.**  
"It's Swan Lake," she says. She's laying on her back, head turned to stare at him. "The music. It's Swan Lake. There were multiple endings. In some, the prince realizes Odile's deception, and he and Odette live happily ever after. In others, he doesn't, and Odette either commits suicide or stays a swan forever. In the last one, he realizes, but it's too late. They both commit suicide."

He stares at her.

"They think it's poetic."

He snorts, "What does metal know about poetry?"

She shrugs.

"What do you?" he asks. She's too young- she wouldn't have gone to school before Judgement day- or at least, wouldn't have gotten far enough to start talking about poetry.

"My mother was a ballerina," she says. "This is her recording."

Something flickers across her face. The silence stretches.

"You're bleeding."

Her hands are pressed, tiny, to his bare chest. He looks down. He's bleeding. Surgical cuts right under his pecs. But he's fascinated by the tiny hands, warm on his chilled skin. She's frowning down at his chest, and he curves his hand over hers.

"Hey. It's okay," he says. She looks up at him.

"It could get infected. This is not a sani- it's not clean here."

"Dad a doctor?" he asks.

"Been here a long time," she replies, tilting her head, gazing up at him. "You're around a lot…you start to talk like them."

"How long?"

"I don't know," she says, looking back down at his chest. "You're the first person I've seen in a long time."

"Who was the last?" he asks. Her fingers start tracing around the cuts, and he's transfixed, lets his hand fall down.

Kyle is missing, he's stuck in a 888 holding cell, but he's absolutely riveted. She's like nothing he's ever experienced- encountered.

"A girl. Her name was Allison. I think she was my age."

"What happened?"

"We were on a boat," she says. "She jumped off, she wanted to escape. They were- they wanted her to teach them to be human. They wanted us to teach them to be human. She was a resistance fighter. She jumped. They terminated her."

He nods. Doesn't say anything. They've all been there. All lost people. Nothing you can do but nod.

Only person who ever has the words is Connor. Everyone else's fall hollow. Flat. Reek of metal.

The music plays on.

"They're collecting samples," she says into the silence. "They're analyzing your tissue."

"What for?"

"I don't know," she replies. She lifts her shirt up, smooth, pale skin revealed casually and it's not like the teasing unbuttoning of Jones's shirt the last time he'd been around her way and she'd fucked him, but it's still... hot.

Three lines under the swell of her left breast. Incisions, just like his. He reaches out and touches, and the muscles in her abdomen tighten and she sort of…arches into him.

She reminds him of a cat. Or a ribbon pulled tight. His fingers seem huge, dirty and awkward on the white of her stomach, but he traces the scars up with three fingers, thumbing the curve of her breast. Grazes the nipple.

He has no idea what he's doing, but he's in a 888 holding cell, and there's no way to escape because he's (he thinks) three stories underground. You take what you can get when you can get it.

She arches again, and when he looks up she's looking back at him, strangely serious. He wonders how long it's been since she's been touched. Really touched. If ever. He leans in slow, gives her time to turn away, smile and shake her head, but she doesn't. She looks at his lips, and then tilts her head to accept the kiss, the sharp line of her jaw fitting into his other hand, fingers tangling gently in the hair at the nape of her neck.

Her lips aren't rough, aren't chapped like people who live above-ground are. She's been in atmosphere calibrated for a 888's optimal performance, no dry lips, no dry skin. Silky smooth, like a memory of hot summer days, diving into a pool.

He doesn't realize he's deepened it until she's moaning against his tongue, until he's exploring her mouth, tasting the roof of her mouth, sliding against her tongue.

She wraps a small arm around his neck, and he slide the hand that's been teasing her small left breast down, down, under her pants, sliding his middle finger over her clit. She gasps into his mouth, tightens her grip around his neck. He grins, bends his head to kiss her neck. Slides his hand back until she's grinding on his palm and he's sliding two fingers inside. She's already wet, and then she bucks, shudders, gasps.

Fast, but he's not sure she's done this and hell, these days everything moves fast.

He slides his hand out, catches her in another kiss. She pulls him in, presses her hips against his.

"Can I?" he asks against her lips.

She nods, pulls back, her baggy pants falling down and she kicks them off lightly, toes pointed in a strangely delicate arc. He sees his tattered shirt to spread under her, because the floor is cold cement, and hey, romance is…a fantasy, but he's no ass, and she's tiny and fragile and somehow he wants to- wants to protect her. She leans down, another smooth graceful movement.

She smiles a little up at him, a strange half-formed thing. He kisses it, unbuttons his pants and slides them down over his ass, guides her small hand over his cock. Guides her grip, which is stronger than he'd expected. She tries an experimental twist, and he drops his head against his shoulder, because Jesus.

It's been a long time since he's had the time to do this.

It's possible he's never had the time to do this. The room is cool- not cold, but cool and damp and his breathing is harsh in his ears, and her little gasps- more a hint of sound than anything- are going to drive him mad.

Her thumb traces the slit and his hips jerk, breathing hard and panting, dick leaking. She's stroking, experimentally trailing her nails lightly along the vein, pressing behind his balls, squeezing them gently and he grits his teeth and tries very hard not to come all over them both, but there's something insanely erotic about how curious she is. Her chin grazes his temple, dips, and she whispers, "Now."

Her legs slide apart, far apart, and he slides in gently as he can manage, but it's been a long time and he's aching. One of her hands fists in his hair and the other scratches along his back as he slides all the way in, and she arches up. He pulls out a little, slides back in, and then she makes an impatient noise.

"You should go harder," she says, hips rolling against his. "I won't break."

And God, she's tight and wet and she flexes and squeezes him and-

That's it. He's gone, over the edge, and she shudders when he bites her neck lightly- habit, pure habit, he's used to women who ride him, whose hands leave scratches in his chest and who bite and expect it rough.

He rolls off onto the shockingly cold cement, sweat prickling at the lack of body contact. She sits up, slides a hand between her legs and presses, grinds down on the fist she makes, face some strange mix of curious and pleased, mouth falling open and her head falling back as she shudders her orgasm.

That's one thing he envies, he thinks as he drifts off after hiking his pants back up around his hips; women get multiple orgasms.

**3.**  
He wakes up slowly, aware there's something going on but he feels disoriented. He knows he's in a 888 stronghold. He knows he's got to get out, knows there's a group of them, but he feels strangely liquid, and it's not drugs.

Then he realizes that the tickling sensation on his thighs is hair, and he looks down, completely bemused, to find his cock disappearing into her mouth over and over again as she bobs up and down.

He makes a strangled sound and she pulls off with a truly obscene noise, and says, "Oh good, you're awake."

And then swallows him, watching him through her lashes.

He comes so hard he cracked his head against the floor, and he's pretty sure there'll be blood if he checks but Jesus _fuck_. No gag reflex. _And_ she swallows, pulling off and licking her lips.

The 888s don't come for them that day.

Derek's okay; he was losing track of time anyway, and the look of wonder on her face every time he makes her come? Is pretty fucking amazing.

**4.**  
He wakes up on a cold table. She's standing next to him, hair brushed, features smooth, wearing crisp clean clothing.

Too smooth. She tilts her head. "Your last name is not Reese," she says, and fuck, yeah: she's metal. "You lied to me."

"I didn't tell you my last name."

"You said your brother was Kyle. Kyle Reese. Kyle Reese: one surviving relative, Derek Reese, Lieutenant with the 132nd S.O.C., operational specialty Tech-Com." She pauses, looks at him. "Also known as the Four Horsemen. Reference to the apocalypse."

He doesn't move an inch. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck- when the fuck did Metal get so human? That Allison girl- apparently she'd taught this 888 well, only "Cameron" was no metal he'd ever encountered before. All the other 888s were hanging back, giving her berth. She was something new. Something different, and wasn't that just a cheery fucking thought.

"You are related to John Connor," she says. "DNA analysis confirms."

He stares her down, lifts an eyebrow a little, clenches his jaw. At least he got a good fuck out of this, if he's going to die.

She nods, almost to herself, and then plunges a needle into his neck with clinical detachment. Of course- she's metal.

He wakes up in the room he was first brought in. Swan Lake is still playing, but there's no metal anywhere, and he's not chained. He gets his guys out of there.


End file.
